


Turn Your Face to the Wall

by kitestringer



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-25
Updated: 2010-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitestringer/pseuds/kitestringer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius thinks today he might not bother waiting until everyone's safely out of the room before he kisses Remus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Your Face to the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix._ Thanks to [](http://maverick4oz.livejournal.com/profile)[**maverick4oz**](http://maverick4oz.livejournal.com/) for encouragement and to [](http://kaynyne.livejournal.com/profile)[**kaynyne**](http://kaynyne.livejournal.com/) for helpful comments and Britpicking.
> 
> Originally posted in January of 2007.

Sirius thinks today he might not bother waiting until everyone's safely out of the room before he kisses Remus. And why should he? It's his house, after all, and he can do what he likes, and the Order can find another bloody headquarters if there are any strong objections. It's not as though they need _him_ around, a fact that everyone from Albus Dumbledore to Snivellus bloody Snape has made rather clear to him in recent months.

He sits on the kitchen table and pours another shot of Firewhisky and watches Remus tap the kettle with his wand, and he thinks, yeah, _yeah._ He'll stand and go to him and turn his face towards his and _do it,_ and Molly will gasp, or possibly scream, and Arthur will likely just sit there in his chair, gaping, and Dung will—well, who knows what Dung will do? Probably take the opportunity to slip some of the silverware into his pocket. And what difference will that make? Any of it?

Remus's pale, steady hands reach for the tin of his favourite tea, the kind of tea Sirius has made certain there's more than enough of here in the house, enough to last months and months (which is as far into the future as Sirius allows himself to imagine). Those hands are two of Remus's best features—Sirius has always thought so, since even before he knew about some of the nicer things they could do. He wonders what they'll do when he kisses Remus now—if they'll grasp the edge of the worktop for balance, or if one will come to rest on Sirius's waist, or if they'll both try to push him away.

Dung is saying something, perhaps even to him, but Sirius has no interest in listening; now that he's thought of it, kissing Remus is all he cares to think about. It's as though the part of his mind that is always Padfoot has taken over and reduced everything to its most clear and simple. He'll slide off the table, he'll take a few steps, and then he'll be tasting Moony's mouth, tasting _him,_ until everyone has been driven away in horror and there's no one left but the two of them—and yeah, that's all there is, really. End of bloody story.

He swallows all the Firewhisky he's just poured, puts both feet on the floor, and now he's ready to move and only just slightly off-balance. Remus's back is to him; the jumper he's wearing is unravelling at the left shoulder, and his hair is getting a bit long and looks even softer than normal.

'Would you like some tea, Sirius?' Remus asks without turning around.

'No, thanks,' Sirius says, and he supposes the way his voice has gone low and hoarse might be a bit of a giveaway, because Remus goes very still at the sound of it, hand poised in midair over the teapot. Sirius knows he should do it now, before Remus has a chance to give him that look of warning Sirius is so sick to bloody death of. He moves closer, very close, until the steam from the boiling water warms his face and he can smell the tea in its tin and feel Remus's tension thickening the air between them.

'Sirius,' Remus whispers, not looking at him. 'Not now.'

Sirius leans closer. 'Why not?'

'You know very well.' Remus's voice is so quiet, Sirius would have had to strain to hear him over the Weasleys' chattering if he hadn't already known what he was going to say.

Sirius reaches for him anyway. Remus's cheek is bristly and warm against his palm—and when he turns his head towards him, Sirius sees his blackened eye, the one he came home with last night after days with no word, off somewhere doing Merlin-knows-what at Dumbledore's bidding, something Remus has so far refused to speak of to anyone, even Sirius. Remus is watching him silently now, not pulling away but begging him with his eyes to stop, please stop, not here, not now.

Sirius has always found it difficult to deny Remus when he looks at him this way. He touches his bruised cheek lightly with his thumb and decides he won't start trying now. 'I'll be in the library,' he says, and then winks to tell him that it's okay, although deep inside he doesn't actually believe it's okay at all. The part of him that's Padfoot can't decide whether to growl and bear its teeth or whine piteously; perhaps he'll do a little of both.

But if there's one thing he's learned in the past fourteen years, it's how to wait—sometimes, anyway. When it's absolutely necessary. When it's worth the effort. The corner of Remus's mouth curves in a tentative half-smile, and something flares inside Sirius at the sight of it, something that had been cold for so many years that it's nearly painful having it warm again. He snatches the whisky from the table and leaves the room without looking back, the cheerful sound of Molly Weasley's laughter following him as he goes.


End file.
